


Insubordinate

by redscudery



Series: Redscudery's Rare Pair Bazaar [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But just a little, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Kink, Outdoor Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Swearing, Top John, Top John Watson, again this was supposed to be just a blowjob, imagine alistair petrie's shoulders flexing as you read this, ish, ish again, look I drive by these exercise benches every day and also I am fond of Trixxx, pushups, while cocksucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why don’t you just take me, then?” James asks, leering. John laughs.<br/>“That way, is it? Why don’t you drop and give me twenty?”<br/>“What do you mean, ‘Drop’? Bossy bastard. Not to mention insubordinate.”<br/>“You said you wanted to be taken.”<br/>“Here?”<br/>“Here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insubordinate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Provocatrixxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/gifts).



> Inspired by Trixxx's love of the military, sweaty bodies, and [this bench.](http://healthinfousa.com/stamina/652300c.jpg)

It’s six a.m. in Tidworth. Along the gravel trail in the miltary park, a voice echoes through the Wiltshire fog.

“Is that as fast as you can go?”

“You’re,” another voice gasps, “a lot taller. Longer legs.”

“You are fueled by rage,” says the first voice, “so we’re about even.”

“This is not the way you were trained to encourage your soldiers, Captain Sholto,” says the gasping voice. “I think you need a refresher.”

“I know what I’m doing. Come on, last sprint before the interval.”

James Sholto comes loping out through the trees, followed at quite close range by John Watson. They’re both shirtless, regiment-issue t-shirts tucked into their brief running shorts, and despite the cool morning, they both glisten with sweat.

They stop at a fitness bench, and John collapses on it, panting.

“Too much soft living, Watson.”

“Yes, because my first weekend leave in six months was so relaxing.”

“Not my fault you decided to spend it all eating fish & chips & watching crap telly.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“I could still take you down any day.” he says.

“Why don’t you just take me?” Sholto asks, leering. John laughs, but there’s a flash in his eye.

“That way, is it? Why don’t you drop and give me twenty?”

“What do you mean, ‘Drop’? Bossy bastard. Not to mention insubordinate.”

“You said you wanted to be taken.”

“Here?”

“Here.” John is serious, and Sholto shivers. They’re not bantering any more.

“Hands on the bar, James.”

Sholto runs his hands through his hair. John’s voice is at the octave that he associates with sex, and he’s already getting hard. He leans down and grasps the cool damp iron of the handle, grateful for the distraction of getting himself into position.

“How many?” he says, holding himself ready.

John straddles the bench. Sholto can feel the heat of his body, smell clean sweat, and see..oh my god, his cock is already swelling.

“As many as it takes, Captain.” John tosses his t-shirt aside and spreads his legs.

Sholto bunches his muscles and extends his arms. The movement is strong and clean; his position perfect. He hears John exhale, and lowers himself so that his mouth is inches from the bulge in John’s shorts.

He takes a steadying breath and pushes up again. John doesn’t move. Sholto knows he’s only got one or two more minutes before John loses his patience, but he doesn’t care.

Another. John’s belly is still motionless, but Sholto admires the smooth sweep of skin and the dusting of toffee-coloured hair.  He touches his tongue to the sensitive point below John’s navel, swirls around, then pushes up again.

Down. A kiss to the top of the iliac crest.

Up. Deep breath.

Down. The other iliac crest.

Up. Deep breath.   
Down. A broad sweep of the tongue around the navel.

Up. He’s hard now, and he’s going to be arrested for indecent exposure if anyone comes along. Damn running shorts.

Down. John’s thumbs are at the waistband of his shorts but he doesn’t quite get them off in time, and Sholto grins along the fabric, brushing John’s cock so very lightly.

Up. He looks up into John’s face, but John has glanced down, trying to disentangle himself from his shorts. Sholto holds himself there for a moment, listening to John’s harsh breathing, hearing the angry “fuck” bubble up. He can smell John’s arousal.

Down. John’s hands are on his face and guiding him down. Sholto tries to buck back a bit but only for show; when his mouth closes over the hard, hot head his own cock jerks with pleasure. He tries to get some friction by pushing against his ridiculous running kit but he can’t. In any case, John’s hands are more insistent now, and so Sholto gives himself over to the pleasure of the smooth flesh--for a moment at least.

Up. John lets him go, and Sholto pushes himself right up. His pectorals ache a bit and his arms are shaking, but it’s more from desire than anything. He looks up into John’s face. John kisses him, just a little, then lets him go.

Down. This time Sholto licks along the shaft of John’s cock but doesn’t take him in.

Up. John bites his lip and arches his hips. “Arsehole,” he mutters.

Down. “Surely not here,” Sholto says, and takes John in again. John gasps and leans back, and Sholto takes more, sucking until John’s hips start to roll.

Up. John exhales shakily.

Down. Sholto swallows him down all the way this time, balancing on the knife-edge of muscle fatigue and desire. John is trembling too.

 

The next press-up is the last. John grabs him by the biceps; Sholto lets himself be tugged off the bar and pushed to his knees in the gravel. He cups John’s ballocks with one hand and the shaft of his cock with the other, then looks up.

“Christ, just do it,” John growls, his voice knocking the breath out of Sholto’s body like a punch. Dizzy, Sholto takes him in, quick and messy.

“Fuck.” John is gripping his hair, the bastard. He reaches for his own cock, but John hisses “Don’t you dare let go of me!”

He doesn’t, but he wishes he could. He’s so hard, achingly hard, and each tug of his hair makes him more desperate for a touch; he’d go off in a moment.  He obeys, though, turning his focus to John’s cock like it’s the only thing in the world--slick, salt, hot, hard.

When John comes, Sholto looks up to watch his face contort and then go slack. It brings him as far as he can go untouched, seeing John’s pleasure, but he doesn’t move. He holds still, savouring the intense erotic frustration, until John caresses his shoulders and pulls him up so he’s kneeling between John’s thighs.

John hooks his fingers into Sholto’s waistband and tugs the shorts down to mid-thigh. Sholto almost cries out in pain because he’s so hard, but gasps instead, as the cool air hits him. John kisses his open mouth, then draws him in so their cocks are slotted together.

Sholto groans. John is still hard, and damp, and now he’s rutting against him. John makes no attempt to hold him back, only gripping his arse and holding steady, and five, six, seven strokes, he’s there. John won’t let him break the kiss, biting his lips and holding him close as he comes.

 

“So,” John says lightly, after they can breathe again and their t-shirts have been sacrificed to clean up the mess (he’d better not send those to the regimental laundry, Sholto thinks). “Will I be court-martialed?”

“Not bloody likely,” Sholto says. “But you might have to run some extra laps.” He takes off towards the woods again, and he only lets John catch up at the very end of the run. Discipline, after all, must be preserved.

**Author's Note:**

> The The Fusiliers in their current incarnation would have trained [near Tidworth, in Wiltshire. ](https://www.google.ca/maps/@51.2311023,-1.6684613,3a,75y,107.64h,77.15t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sipm7vWPKnnYFfwRnNA6ItQ!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?hl=en)


End file.
